101 Ways To Nearly Kill John Watson
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Welcome to a series of stories of varying length, each one telling of a near death experience for poor John Watson. This collection was inspired by a challenge from the lovely Ennui Enigma. It may not update often so it will take a while to complete. As with my previous collection there may be some slash, but each story will be flagged. Rated M for violence, gore and some slash
1. Invisible Killer

**Non Slash  
Disclaimer: I do not own any Sherlock characters - that honour belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss**

The room was lit with the soft glow of firelight, and as Sherlock entered like a whirlwind through the front door the flames in the grate flickered, throwing strange eerie shadows around the room.

He had just opened his mouth to call his friend's name when he spotted it, the lump on the couch, covered in blankets and decidedly John-shaped, with a tuft of blond hair sticking out at one end.

His heart jumped up into this throat as he studied his surroundings – not 221B, John had walked out of there a month ago, vowing never to return – no, this was a poor substitute for the home they had shared, this was not quite a bedsit, not quite a flat.

The front door opened straight into this room, where the couch, the only form of seating in the room, doubled as a bed. In an obvious effort to conserve energy and money, the couch had been pulled up in front of the open fire, the only source of warmth. Through the open doorway that led to the tiny kitchen a noticeable draft blew like a gale, and at the far end of the kitchen another door led to a toilet/wet room. Sherlock ran a quick calculation through his head – even at the 'affordable' rents that the landlord charged, he could see the man was squeezing as many of these flats as possible into limited space, maximising profit. He hated that he had driven his only friend to this.

As he turned to survey the kitchen workspace, the young man could see his breath on the frigid air, the heat of the flames in the living room grate barely reaching the past the sleeping man….

A frown creased Sherlock's brow as he stared at his friend, wrapped up in blanket, asleep on the couch. Something was wrong. Something was decidedly not good about the scene in front of him.

John was a soldier, a frontline doctor. He may have been a civilian now for three years, but John had never lost his ability to sleep light (except, Sherlock conceded, when his flatmate had kept him awake for too long chasing a case), yet here he was, not being particularly stealthy in his perusal of his friend's new living quarters, and the good doctor hadn't stirred.

Aware that his next planned move might, if he had misjudged the situation, find him face to face with John's (illegal) service weapon, he strode across to where John lay and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.

No response.

He shook him a bit harder.

Still nothing.

More than a bit not good then, Sherlock thought to himself as he pulled the covers off the other man, yet even such rough treatment elicited no response.

"John!" Sherlock's voice was sharp, an edge of panic in it that even he was unable to explain. He checked his friend for signs of injury, but there was nothing. John had simply dressed in his warmest pyjamas, with a sweatshirt over his usual tatty t-shirt, put on thick socks to keep his feet warm and wrapped himself up in his blankets.

Putting the blankets back over his friend the consulting detective made a quick search of the flat – he wanted to be sure the doctor hadn't succumbed to the depression that had once threatened to overwhelm him, in the days before they shared a flat. Sherlock was looking for anything that he might have taken – sleeping pills, anti-depressants – anything that he could overdose on, but the flat was clean.

Returning to his friend, Sherlock prised open his eyelids, checking his pupils – they were non-responsive, but being this close the younger man could see John's skin was pink and healthy looking – except that pink and healthy looking wasn't normal for John. Normal was lightly tanned – he only ever looked this pink when Sherlock did or said something to embarrass him.

Sherlock's mind was working now at speed, his eyes taking in everything about the man lying before him. Checking his pulse he noted it was far too rapid for someone so deeply asleep.

Glancing over his shoulder at the dying fire his eyes widened, and he looked back at his friend with renewed fear. In one smooth movement he pulled John, blankets and all, up onto his shoulder in a passable firemen's lift, fumbling for his mobile as he carried the unconscious man out of the flat.

Dialling 999, he almost screamed at the operator to put him through to the Ambulance Service. Moments later, a calm voice reached his ears.

"London Ambulance Service, what is your…"

"I need an ambulance now" Sherlock didn't give the operator time to finish. "My friend is unconscious, totally unresponsive. I believe he is suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning" Manoeuvring through the front door to the building, the young man eased his burden down onto the front steps, sitting next to him and pulling the blankets tightly around him as he answered the call operator's questions and gave the address.

Sitting in the cold night air, it seemed to Sherlock that they waited for hours, but in truth it was little more than ten minutes before he could see the blue lights of the approaching ambulance.

After a brief check of the unconscious man's stats, the paramedics loaded John into the ambulance and Sherlock leapt in alongside him.

"Are you family?" the paramedic asked as he slipped an oxygen mask over his patient's face.

"He has no family" Sherlock lied, blithely ignoring the existence of Harry Watson. "I'm his friend"

xXx

The first thing John noticed as his senses returned, was that he was warm – warmer than he had been in a long time. He lay, luxuriating in the feeling of a soft, comfortable, warm bed – until his memory prodded him, reminding him that his flat didn't have a proper bed, and what it did have was generally lumpy and uncomfortable. Warm was not a word used to describe the flat at all. The next thing was the pounding in his head.

He drew in a deep breath, and was brought up short by the smell of disinfectant and starched sheets. Hospital? How the hell…..?

"John?" Sherlock had seen the signs of consciousness returning, and was now standing peering down at his friend, watching as he blinked sleepily in the harsh fluorescent light.

"Sh'lock?" the army doctor's mouth felt as if he'd been chewing cotton wool, and the hand he was trying to raise to his face to wipe the fog away from his eyes wouldn't cooperate with his brain. "How…?"

"Your new flat's a death trap" the younger man spat angrily. "If you must live somewhere other than Baker Street, you could at least find a decent flat, with proper heating and a landlord who cares what happens to his tenants."

As John looked away, ashamed and unable to keep eye contact, Sherlock realised that maybe the other man had had little choice. His insistence that the doctor give up his work at the surgery to work solely with him meant that the only money John had was his army pension, and finding a job after giving up a perfectly good post for the flimsiest of reasons would be hard.

"Come home."

The soft spoken words had John's eyes snapping back to the other man's face. He said nothing, his eyes trying to read the meaning behind Sherlock's words.

The silence stretched, and the two men continued to stare at each other, totally oblivious of the hustle and bustle of the busy A&E department.

Finally John could stand no more.

"But I'm stupid and useless. Why would you want me underfoot, holding you back?" quietly he reminded his ex-flatmate of the words he had flung at the doctor in anger, just four weeks previously. "Why?"

Sherlock frowned. He realised that his first thought – that at least John would have a decent place to live if he came back – was probably not what this proud ex-soldier wanted to hear. He would think he was being offered charity.

Suddenly it was clear what he needed to say. He fidgeted nervously with the blanket covering his friend, then blurted out

"I'm sorry! I was wrong, John – that's what I was coming to say to you. I need you to help me with cases, I need you to keep the idiots away…"

A slight smile twitched at the corner of the older man's mouth.

"Well that was bloody honest at any rate"

"Of course it's honest…" Sherlock realised that his friend was smiling, and pressed his advantage, "Come home – Mrs Hudson misses you."

**A/N: Carbon monoxide poisoning is no joke – and often fatal. It doesn't cost much to buy a CO alarm (similar to a smoke alarm) and it could save your life.**


	2. An Inside Job

**No Slash.  
Disclaimer: Still don't own these guys - that privilege belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss**

John and Sherlock stood staring down the length of the empty, dilapidated waterfront warehouse. The youth they had chased was at the far end of the building, bent double, hands on knees, trying to get his breath back.

"Something doesn't feel right" John muttered to Sherlock, his eyes never leaving their quarry.

"No John, he's just stupid" Sherlock didn't bother to lower his voice as he started once more to move towards the boy, but John didn't move except to tilt his head as if listening to something.

"Wait Sherlock, can you hear…?" screwing his face up and concentrating, John tried to block out everything except the faint roaring that seemed out of place on this stretch of the Thames frontage.

The youth heard it too, and as it grew louder he looked up at the approaching detective and started to laugh.

In that split second, John realised what was about to happen. Time seemed to slow down as his glance shifted from the two people ahead of him to the glassless window. Across the overgrown vehicle access area the Land Rover bounced, its speed increasing as it approached the building, aiming straight for the centre, where Sherlock had now stopped to look back, puzzled.

There was no time to shout a warning. John flew across the concrete floor and rugby-tackled Sherlock out of the way just as the vehicle crashed through the rotting wooden wall. Waiting only for the youth to climb in the back, the driver then reversed and spun round, pulling away with a screech of tyres and leaving a trail of rubber on the cracked tarmac.

As the dust settled, John lifted his head and looked around, taking in the gaping hole in the wall, and the timbers hanging precariously from the roof.

Both men were covered in dust and cobwebs, splinters of damp worm-eaten wood clung to their hair and clothes, and as they eased their way out of the rubble the sound of approaching sirens heralded the arrival of Lestrade and his team.

Stepping out of the plain black police car Sally Donovan laughed at the two men.

"Oh look! It's Worzel Gummidge and friend." she smirked as she saw puzzlement on Sherlock's face.

"You volunteering for the role of Aunt Sally then?" John retorted, glancing up at Sherlock and explaining "A life-sized fairground doll. Very pretty," he paused and watched the smile grow wider on Sally's face. "No brains."

"Oi!"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Pop culture?"

"Kid's books."

"If you've quite finished?" Lestrade asked wearily.

"The boy obviously knows more than he's letting on." Sherlock said, brushing himself down, watching as John did the same. "He dropped this - "he handed Lestrade a card advertising a new internet café " – you should be able to pick him up there."

"Great. All we need now are your statements." Greg pointed to Sally's car. "Jump in, we'll give you a lift to the Yard. Once the paperwork's done Sally can take you home."

"What?" Sally's eyes bugged.

"That won't be..."

"Thanks, Greg. I doubt very much even the great genius here could persuade a cabbie to take us covered in this much muck." John smiled and pushed his flatmate towards the car. "C'mon. Sooner we do this, the sooner we can get home and get cleaned up."

O*O*O

John sat on the edge of his bed, gently smoothing antiseptic cream onto the cuts and scratches he'd received from the falling building. The doctor had spent half an hour removing splinters that had worked their way through his clothing and into his skin.

Sherlock had been more fortunate, having only grazed his hands as he landed under John on the concrete floor.

Pulling on his pyjamas and dressing gown, John wandered through to the living room, where Sherlock, also in pyjamas and robe, was laying on the couch, eyes closed, fingers steepled against his chin, thinking.

With a small grin, John carried on through to the kitchen and started putting together some dinner, deciding that something quick and easy like an omelette would be sufficient, he was too tired to be more adventurous.

Much to John's surprise, Sherlock actually ate half of his food, and was relatively quiet when making his usual snarky comments about the evening's entertainment on the television. He was just thinking about turning in for the night when he noticed Sherlock was watching him closely.

"What?"

"You keep scratching at your side" the younger man observed. "Almost as if you don't know you're doing it."

"Am I?" John undid the belt on his dressing gown and pulled up his t-shirt to look at the offending area. Just above the waistband of his pyjama bottoms was an angry looking red mark. "Right – it was a splinter, a big one at that. Took a bit of persuading to come out, it just itches a bit now but that's probably the cream I put on it. It'll be fine by morning."

Sherlock nodded and dismissed it from his mind. Straightening his clothes, John wished his flatmate goodnight and walked through to the kitchen to grab a glass of water before disappearing up to his room.

There was much for Sherlock to think about concerning this case. He was certain there was more to it, and that the body they had found this morning was either one of many, or merely a decoy. He had just concluded that there would be more deaths, and was about to text Lestrade to advise him, when the sound of John moving slowly down the stairs distracted him.

"You're limping." He stated quietly.

"Jesus Sherlock! What are you still doing there?" John barely managed to stop the glass from slipping out of his hand as he recovered from the shock of hearing his friend's voice.

"Thinking."

"Right. And you couldn't do that in the comfort of your own room, and possibly in – or at least on – your bed?"

In the half-light from the street Sherlock studied the man standing in the doorway.

"You're limping," he repeated, "and shivering. What's wrong?"

"Wrong? What on earth could be wrong" John answered a little sharply as he moved to the kitchen to re-fill his glass. "I'm shivering because I've dragged myself out of my nice warm bed to get more water, and my maniac flatmate scared the shit out of me by lurking around the living room in the dark, instead of going to bed like any decent human being!"

"That doesn't explain the limp." Sherlock replied reasonably. "And you knew I wasn't a decent human being within a day of moving in, so stop complaining."

John put his glass down on the table and stared back through the kitchen doorway. Then he chuckled.

"Yeah, s'pose you've got a point there." Taking a gulp of the water, he quickly topped the glass up again and headed back to bed, muttering as he went "and the limp is where I bashed my hip saving your sorry arse once more."

Sherlock stayed silent, just listening to his friend's slow progress back up the stairs, a slight frown creasing his brow.

O*O*O

"Morning Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock almost bounced through the front door of the house. His fact-finding trip over to the Embankment had been fruitful, and now he just needed to sit down and consider the information he had gathered.

His landlady smiled and returned his greeting, then turned her attention back to the hall table that was currently smeared with wax, waiting to be polished.

Carrying on up and into the flat, the consulting detective was mildly surprised to find his flatmate lying on the sofa still wearing his pyjamas and wrapped in blankets, an empty tea mug and a half full glass of water on the table beside him.

"John?"

Bleary eyes opened slightly, squinting up at him from the woollen cocoon.

"Sh'lock, been out?"

"Obvious, John. What's wrong? Are you ill?"

"Think I might have flu." John croaked, shivering violently and pulling the blankets firmly around him.

Sherlock frowned as he removed his coat and scarf, noting the flush along John's cheeks.

"Why didn't you stay in bed?"

"Needed more water. Didn't fancy trying to carry it upstairs though."

"Ah. Do you need anything else?"

A shaky hand reached out to grasp the glass of water, and the liquid was gulped down.

"More water please, and can you grab the paracetamol from the med kit."

Making swift work of these tasks, Sherlock tipped two capsules into his friends hand and passed him a fresh glass of water, watching as he struggled to sit up and take the medication.

"Think I'll just stay here for a while." John sounded tired, and his eyes looked heavy as he settled himself back down onto the cushions. "Maybe I can sleep it off."

"I'll be in my room." Sherlock paused, and then somewhat uncharacteristically he moved to the window and closed the curtains, reducing the light levels in the room. He stopped to look down at John as he passed, and realised the other man was already asleep.

O*O*O

Mid-afternoon found Sherlock and Lestrade staring down at another corpse. Preliminary examination showed he had died in the same way as the man they had found the previous day. While they watched the body being taken up into the private ambulance, Greg looked keenly at the young man at his side.

"Where's John? He okay? He took a bit of a battering yesterday."

"I left him asleep on the couch – apparently he's got flu."

When that statement was greeted with silence, Sherlock turned his head to look at the Detective Inspector.

"Problem?"

"You tell me, Sherlock. That sounded distinctly like you don't believe him."

Sherlock's brows knitted together as he considered the man he'd left sleeping at home.

"It's May." He said finally, looking expectantly at the policeman beside him.

"I don't follow." Greg stared right back at him, trying to figure what the time of year had to do with it.

Shaking his head, Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat pockets and rolled his eyes.

"Flu season is generally October to March, it's highly unlikely that he's got flu, yet he has all the symptoms."

"And he's a doctor, and should be able to tell whether or not it's the flu."

"Maybe." Sherlock said thoughtfully, turning to walk away.

"Hey! Where are you off to?"

"Home Inspector. Text me if anything else turns up." And with that he walked out to the main road and hailed a cab.

Less than 15 minutes later, as he stepped into the flat he knew John was worse. There was a sour smell in the air, and he heard the toilet being flushed, and water running – too long for just washing his hands, no matter that the doctor was always scrupulously thorough about that, Sherlock listened to the pattern of the breaks in the water and to the splashes. John was rinsing his face too, and swilling his mouth.

He stood and waited for the bathroom door to open, and when it did his eyes took in every detail of the man leaning against the door frame, one hand protectively holding his side.

"This isn't flu, is it John? Wrong time of year."

"Old wives tale." John huffed a short laugh as he eased himself forwards towards the living room. "You can get flu anytime of the year; it's just more common in winter."

"You've been sick, and you've got…"

"Yeah, right. Don't need reminding genius, having just spent fifteen minutes in there trying to work out which bit of me wanted to empty itself first."

Instead of sitting down, John half shuffled, half limped across to the bookshelf, reaching up and snagging a largish medical tome. Spotting the intense look on his flatmate's face, the doctor eased himself down into his chair and gestured for Sherlock to do the same.

"You're probably right about it not being flu – I suspected as much shortly before you arrived home." He flicked through the pages of the book, his eyes darting back and forth across the pages, until he found what he was looking for. Marking the page with his finger, he met his friend's gaze steadily.

"The limp has little to do with landing badly, the pain is getting worse rather than easing off." He waited for Sherlock's nod of understanding, and then continued. "While I was in the bathroom I checked that itchy cut – it's not looking good."

"But it was just a small scratch you said, a splinter."

"And so it was, but not now."

Leaning slightly to his left, John pulled up his t-shirt once more. The area around the scratch had become swollen and inflamed, but alongside the injury itself the skin was mottled and flaky looking. Sherlock moved forward, hand outstretched to touch it.

"Don't!"

"But…"

"No, Sherlock. If this is what I think it is, then I don't want you anywhere near it." He flipped the book around and held it out, the page open to the diagnosis he had made.

As his friend read the page in front of him, John sunk back down in his chair, exhausted and shaky.

At last Sherlock looked back up at him.

"I'm calling an ambulance."

O*O*O

Sherlock paced the floor in the relative's waiting room. The Staff sister had wanted him to go away and come back later, but John had insisted, between bouts of throwing up, that Sherlock was the closest thing he had to a family and he _needed_ him there. That revelation had startled him, but what he had read in John's face was fear, and he promised his friend he would be waiting for him.

He finally stopped pacing and stood, staring blindly out of the window. So lost in thought was he that he was barely aware when the door opened and someone else entered the room. Greg Lestrade had hardly been able to believe his eyes when he read Sherlock's terse text, now he stood in the doorway of the waiting room, staring at the consulting detective, seeing disbelief and worry on those sharp pale features.

"How the fuck did this happen?" Greg's voice was harsher than intended, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice. He just looked across at the older man, noting the concern in his face.

"It's bacterial. John thinks it was carried on the splinters he picked up yesterday."

"But surely he cleaned it up? I mean, he's a doctor."

"Yes Lestrade," Sherlock snapped, "he cleaned it up; he cleaned it thoroughly _because_ he's a doctor, but the bacteria must have transferred through the scratch made by the splinter he removed."

Greg sat heavily on one of the handful of armchairs in the room, and leaned his elbows on his knees.

"What is it, this necro – whatever it is?"

"Necrotising Fasciitis." Sherlock flung himself down in a chair opposite him and, leaning his head back, stared at the ceiling. "People call it the flesh-eating bug, but it's not – it simply releases toxins in the skin that kill it."

"Jesus!" Greg raked his fingers through his hair. "What are they doing now?"

"Exploratory operation. See how far the flesh has necrotised, they'll take out what they can, pump him full of antibiotics…" his voice trailed off.

"What aren't you telling me?"

"It can be fatal."

A heavy silence settled on the room, as both men sunk into their own bleak thoughts. Neither noticed the passage of time, but eventually the door opened and a green-suited theatre sister stepped into the room.

"Mr Holmes? You can go in and see him now."

Sherlock leapt to his feet, towering over the petite woman.

"What is the prognosis? Will he be alright?"

Greg reached out a hand to restrain the younger man, but the lady smiled and shook her head slightly, returning her attention to the other man.

"It's a good job he's a doctor, and recognised the symptoms. We've removed quite a bit of necrotising flesh, but we are confident we've removed it all, and fortunately it hadn't worked its way deep enough to have attacked the muscles." She smiled. "Let me take you through, you'll want to be there when he wakes up. I'll need to ask you to leave your coat and jacket here with your friend though, and you'll have to wear a set of surgical coveralls."

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, who held his hand out for the discarded clothes.

"Go on, I'll be here when they kick you out." Greg smiled, relieved.

O*O*O

At first John thought he was dreaming. Then, with a touch of dread, he thought that maybe his flatmate had performed the operation on him. And each of these thoughts could be read on his face, causing said flatmate to chuckle softly.

"No, I didn't – but that's not to say I wouldn't have, if you hadn't banned me from getting too close to the infection site."

John smiled up at him, noting the relief in Sherlock's eyes. Gradually his smile faded and he became thoughtful.

"Thanks."

"What for?"

"For being here when I came out."

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he just reached across and gently squeezed his friend's arm.

"Who knows what trouble you'd have got yourself into without me watching your back."

**A/N Necrotising Fasciitis is a bacterial infection that affects soft tissue and fascia. It's rare but serious, and can**** in some cases be fatal.**


	3. Spot of Trouble

**Sorry John - this one selected from the list by EE. Special thanks to Lucy36 for Sherlock's reaction.  
Disclaimer: Hasn't changed in the 10 months I've been doing this - still don't own or profit!**

Sherlock jumped out of the cab and having paid his fare, picked up his suitcase and slammed in through the front door, his face creased in a thunderous scowl.

Mycroft had forced his hand and made it impossible for him to refuse to travel to Cape Town, the British Government having mislaid its ambassador, and Sherlock being the only person available who understood Afrikaans.

It had been the most boring two weeks of his life, especially as he had deduced almost immediately that the ambassador had, in fact, run off with the wife of one of the local dignitaries, and he then found himself pressed into helping the rather embarrassed embassy staff to get him back, before the jealous husband caught them and exacted his own form of justice.

If that wasn't bad enough, Sherlock had been forced to share the eleven hour flight back to England with the rather chastened, and more than a little drunk, former ambassador whining in the seat next to him about having lost both his job and the love of his life, so he tuned him out and retreated into his mind palace. And then, to add insult to injury, from the moment he stepped from the aircraft his phone had started ringing – Mycroft. Just the sight of his brother's name flashing onto the screen set him contemplating any number of painful experiments he'd like to perform on the over-stuffed tailor's dummy!

He had seen Mycroft's driver too, waiting for him to clear customs, but he managed to avoid him and get out of the airport and into a taxi without too much hassle – it was worth the exorbitant cab fare to avoid being forced into his sibling's company.

But the real reason his bad mood had ramped up a couple of notches was the fact that John was ignoring him. He had advised him of his flight and estimated arrival times the previous day, and received a one word text response - _'Okay'_. On the journey from Heathrow he had sent the doctor several texts, and when they weren't answered he tried ringing – it went straight through to voicemail, which could only mean his phone was switched off.

Now as he thrust his way into the flat his irritation overflowed.

"John! John why is your phone…" he stopped dead and stared at his visitor, not in the least bit pleased to see him sitting in his favourite chair. "What are you doing here, Mycroft? Where's John?"

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock in his usual aloof manner, managing to look down his nose at his brother despite remaining seated.

"I said…"

"Yes, I heard you brother. And if you'd cared to answer your phone when I called you, you would be with Dr Watson now, instead of standing in your flat and glaring at me in that childish manner."

Sherlock bit back a snarky retort, wiped his face clean of the irritated expression that had settled there, and asked calmly "And where is he? Where have you sent him?"

"John is in St Thomas' Hospital, Sherlock. He's in Intensive Care."

xXx

John felt awful, and could only be grateful that his flatmate had already been out of the country for nearly a week when he realised that the flu-like symptoms he had were actually something a lot more ominous. Following all the recognised medical procedures, he had asked Sarah to call in on her way to the surgery to take the necessary swab, and to advise the local Health Protection Unit that they had a suspected case of measles.

While he was waiting for her to arrive, John made another phone call – this time to Mrs Hudson, asking her to let Sarah in for him, and to advise her he was probably quite contagious so she was not to come up.

That had been a week ago, and since then he had either been asleep in his room, or asleep on the couch in the living room. In between bouts of sleeping, he had tried to keep himself hydrated, and despite his best efforts at keeping her away, Mrs Hudson had called in at least once a day with light meals to tempt his almost non-existent appetite.

"Are you sure you don't want me to open the curtains, John dear? It's quite nice and sunny outside – you shouldn't shut yourself in like this."

John closed his eyes, reached for his patience and took a deep breath.

"I know, Mrs Hudson, and believe me I'd much rather not be sitting in the dark, but the light hurts my eyes." He told her for what was probably the fifth or sixth time since he'd contracted the disease.

Hovering like a concerned mother hen, Mrs Hudson asked (for what was probably the fifth or sixth time) if that was normal. John would have rolled his eyes if they hadn't been so sore.

"Quite common with measles Mrs H, really there's nothing to worry about, I'm already feeling much better."

Mollified, the landlady left him lying on the couch and returned to 221A; reminding him to call her if he needed anything.

He waited, just long enough to be sure she had reached her flat, and then let himself go limp, no longer needing to convince anyone that he was fine.

After a while he gathered up his mobile, grabbed his box of tissues and a large glass of water, and slowly made his way upstairs.

John hadn't been in bed for very long before the sound of his text alert invaded his consciousness. He squinted at the screen of his mobile, not really taking in the details of the text, just registering the fact that his flatmate would be home the next day. Typing slowly and carefully he sent a one word response, knowing Sherlock would expect it, yet knowing he would accept its brevity. Too tired to consider doing anything else, he dropped his phone back on the bedside cabinet and curled up under his duvet.

It was some four hours later, while Mrs Hudson was preparing a light evening meal for herself and John, that she first heard it – a soft thudding sound, like someone was running up and down the stairs. Curious, she left her flat and stood listening at the foot of the stairs.

The sounds were louder here and definitely emanating from 221B. Arming herself with a large and colourful umbrella, the diminutive landlady made her way upstairs, frowning as the uneven rhythm of the drumming became louder, the closer she came to the flat.

Realisation that it wasn't an intruder hit her as she followed the sound up to John's room. The doctor was lying on the floor beside his bed, his body rigid, and his eyes rolled back in his head. The noise she had heard was the sound of his heels drumming on the floor as muscle spasms jerked through his legs. Stepping around him she reached for his mobile and called the emergency services.

xXx

The staff of the Intensive Care ward opened the door for Sherlock and his brother, and led them to an isolated and curtained off cubicle. Mrs Hudson was sitting next to the bed, her hand stroking John's arm, her eyes watching his face for signs of change.

Sherlock's eyes flickered across his friend's unconscious form, noting the IV's for fluids and medication, and the oxygen mask fitted tightly over his nose and mouth. He noted also that John was naked but for a sheet that covered him from his hips, which provided him with a degree of modesty but drew attention to the weight he had lost in such a short time, and they had fitted him with a strange looking padded cap. To one side of the bed an electric fan had been set up to gently blow cool air over the patient's body to help reduce his temperature.

But what really drew his attention was the rash that discoloured most of the visible areas of John's face and body. It was brownish red, and the spots were so large and close together that they appeared to run into each other – it was hard to believe that this was the same person that had pushed him out of the flat two weeks earlier with a grin and a promise not to throw away his mould cultures that were fermenting nicely in the cupboard under the bathroom sink.

Looking down at the still figure, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. In his peripheral vision he saw Mrs Hudson reach out her hand to offer him comfort, but he stepped back, blindly turning away and walking swiftly from the ward.

He didn't stop walking until he found himself standing outside of the A&E entrance, staring blindly at the traffic.

"Here." Mycroft's voice was soft in his ear, and a hand reached over his shoulder offering a cigarette.

Sherlock took it, and the offered lighter, and as he took a deep lungful of smoke he turned to face his brother.

"How did this happen?" He sounded bewildered. "I mean, he's a doctor – surely…"

"Doctor's aren't immune to viruses, Sherlock. It seems it was just unfortunate that he managed to contract measles despite being vaccinated as a child." The older man moved to stand next to his sibling. "I'm told it's extremely rare, but not impossible."

Looking away again, Sherlock concentrated on his cigarette, drawing in deeply, tasting the acrid smoke as he took it down to his lungs for a moment, then blew it out through his nostrils before repeating the process.

He remained silent as he smoked, then flicking the cigarette end into the road he turned back to his brother.

"I don't know why he feels the need to work in that damned clinic." The words were bitter, the tone biting. "It was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

"Dr Sawyer assures me they've had no cases of measles through the clinic, Sherlock. We don't know where he came in contact with it, and judging by what he told her, neither does John."

Mycroft started to walk back into the hospital, and with only the slightest hesitation, Sherlock followed.

As they stepped out of the lift outside the ICU, they were met by Dr Sanford, the doctor in charge of John's treatment, and after introductions they walked together back to his bedside.

"Mrs Hudson," Mycroft moved to her side and, gently clasping her elbow, helped her to her feet. "You've been here without a break since early this morning, let me at least take you for a nice cup of tea and something to eat."

"Oh but…" Mrs Hudson hesitated, looking worriedly down at her lodger.

"No, I won't take no for an answer." The British Government used all his most persuasive charms on the septuagenarian "Sherlock will be with him, he won't be alone here." As he spoke he walked towards the exit, his hand still holding her elbow, carrying her with him by the force of his good manners.

A smile twitched at Sherlock's lips before he turned his attention to the doctor, and his expression became serious once more.

"What happened?"

"It would appear, Mr Holmes that your friend's temperature spiked suddenly, causing febrile convulsions." He looked at the charts as he spoke. "The paramedics recorded a temperature of over 40c."

Sherlock watched as with professional ease the other man checked the monitors and IV lines.

"We're giving him intravenous anti-viral, and keeping him lightly sedated so that he doesn't become agitated and fretful." Sandford reached over and unclipped a strap, then eased the strange cap from John's head, leaving his fair hair standing on end as if he'd had an electric shock. "The cold cap is usually used for Chemotherapy, but it has been helping to bring his temperature back down. We're monitoring him in case he develops post-infection encephalitis."

"Monitoring how?"

"We performed a lumbar puncture as soon as he came in, the results of which looked good. Once his temperature is stabilised, we'll run a CT scan to be certain." Dr Sanford saw the question in the young man's face and added "It can get rather warm in the CT; we don't want to risk another spike."

"Will he… I mean, what are his chances of a full recovery?"

"Barring further complications, the prognosis is very good. He is a very lucky man – if your landlady hadn't found him so quickly, or had hesitated in calling an ambulance, it may have been a different story altogether."

Nodding, Sherlock slowly sank down into the chair Mrs Hudson had so recently vacated. He was at a loss as to what to do next – it wasn't even as if he could rush out and find the villain that put John here, for there was no villain, no crime, just sheer bad luck.

He wasn't sure how long he had sat, staring at his best friend, but the sound of his brother clearing his throat brought his attention back to his surroundings.

"He looks so young and defenceless." Mrs Hudson said softly as she stood at Sherlock's side, one hand resting on his shoulder.

"Unfortunately you can't stay with him. Let me take you both home."

"No Mycroft, I'm not leaving."

Holmes senior stepped up to his brother, keeping his voice low and controlled.

"In this instance, brother, you have no choice. This is intensive care; the patients here need complete rest – that includes John. You can come back early in the morning, and remain with him all day, but they will not allow you to stay overnight."

Sherlock scowled.

"Sherlock dear, your brother's right," Mrs Hudson added "And I really don't want to be alone in the house tonight."

"And you must know if you make a fuss, they will ban you from coming in to see him altogether."

The scowl deepened, but even if Sherlock suspected his landlady of trying to manipulate him, he knew that his brother, on the other hand, was deadly serious. With ill grace he got to his feet and stalked out of the ward ahead of his companions, completely missing the sly wink his landlady sent his older sibling.

xXx

Sherlock was admitted to the ICU early the next morning, but before he could make his way to John's cubicle Dr Sanford beckoned him over to a computer at the nurse's station.

"Mr Holmes," he said with a wry smile, "I don't know quite how your brother managed to pull these particular strings, but as soon as Dr Watson's temperature had stabilised a CT team were put on standby, and at seven o'clock this morning he had his scan."

The younger man was careful not to smirk, and simply agreed that yes, his brother had a way of getting things done.

The doctor pointed to the computer, where a black and white CT image filled the screen.

"These," he flicked through several views "are Dr Watson's scans, and fortunately they all look perfectly normal."

"So this means that there will be no long term damage?"

The doctor nodded. "It also means we have been able to take him off the sedatives, and we should soon be able to ease off the anti-viral too."

Turning away from the computer, the two men walked slowly through the ward to where John still lay, isolated from the rest of the patients.

"We'll wait for him to wake up, and as soon as we're sure he's stable and showing signs of recovery he can be moved to the private room that your brother has arranged for him." As he offered his hand to Sherlock, he added "Talk to him, it may help him with the initial disorientation, you know, waking up somewhere strange, especially after feeling so ill."

Shaking the doctor's hand Sherlock nodded, and pulled a chair closer to the side of the bed.

At first he was unsure about what to say to his unresponsive friend, after all this wasn't really his area of expertise; he wasn't the one with the good bedside manner. After a few moments thought, he started to relate the details of the case he had worked on in South Africa, drawing verbal caricatures of the people involved.

By the end of his tale he had grown quite frustrated with his friends continued silence, and in a fit of pique added

"It seems I leave you alone for a few days, and you pull a stunt like this! I mean, honestly John. And you call me an attention seeker!"

"Didn't do it on purpose." The voice was weak and hoarse. "Tried to get help, don't remember …"

Sherlock stood and reached for the call button to alert the nurse, then looked down at his friend.

"I'm sorry..."

"What for, John? You can hardly be blamed for catching a virus."

"I….you sounded angry." John frowned as the nurse came in to check his stats.

She held a cup of water with a straw to his lips so that he could have a drink, then asked him a couple of questions which he answered without taking his eyes from his flatmate, and when she left the cubicle the two men continued to look at each other.

Sherlock worried at his lower lip with his teeth, a look of uncertainty on his pale features.

"I'm not angry, John," he paused, trying to find the right words. "I was worried."

John made a noise that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a cough.

"I bet you Googled complications of measles, didn't you?"

Sherlock's downcast eyes were answer enough.

"Yeah, and I'll bet you had visions of meningitis, pneumonia, hepatitis, encephalitis," he paused, coughed, and continued, "Bronchitis, Optic Neuritis…"

"Stop! Just…stop. Yes, I did Google it, and yes, I read all about those things." Sitting back in the chair Sherlock rubbed his temples. "It just wasn't right. Of all the things that have happened to us, you nearly…sorry, I'm supposed to be trying to make you feel better."

This time John did laugh.

"Not your area, Sherlock." He watched his friend for a moment or two, then added "I'm not going to be home for a little while, why don't you head off to Bart's and badger Molly for some body parts to play with? You can come back and see me later."

It seemed too good an opportunity to miss, and Sherlock brightened a little.

"Get some rest John, I'll come back this evening."

John's eyelids drooped, and he hummed in agreement. Sherlock started to walk away, then as a thought occurred to him turned back.

"John?"

The man in the bed looked up at him questioningly.

"About the cultures in the bathroom – how did you know?"

John just rolled his eyes.


	4. Off The Record

**Thank you to MapleleafCameo for choosing this latest method of nearly killing John Watson...**

As much as he loved running around the streets of London, hot on the heels of Sherlock's latest criminal/victim, John Watson appreciated the few occasions when he was asked to make use of his research skills and track down obscure information. He would never admit it, but sometime he just needed a break.

Today was one of those days, and he was grateful for the peace and quiet of Kew's National Records Archive. Sherlock needed confirmation of the killer's connection to the family of his victim – it was the last piece of the puzzle.

In the unusually hot weather he was grateful too for the constant temperature, maintained by air conditioning to protect the integrity of the records, and John settled down to work in comfort.

Several hours, and many copied documents later, he had the proof that Sherlock and Lestrade required to make the charges stick, and he headed back to Baker Street.

xXx

_A week later….._

"You alright mate?" Greg Lestrade dumped a pint down in front of John, sitting opposite him and taking an appreciative sip of his own beer. "You look like shite!"

"Thanks." John grinned back. "To paraphrase Monty Python – I'm sick and tired of being told I'm sick and tired."

Greg laughed out loud at that, leaning forward and slapping john on the shoulder.

"You need a break away from your maniac flatmate – thought of taking a holiday?"

"Some days I think of nothing else." Taking a long pull on his beer, John sat back and repressed a shiver. "To be honest, I'm just tired. These last two cases have kept his majesty pacing the floor at all hours, and the pair of us running around like lunatics when most decent people are asleep in their beds."

Both men settled into a companionable silence, each mulling over the criminal fraternity's lack of consideration and their awful sense of timing.

By the end of the evening, John was glad to scramble into a cab and head home. Usually his evenings at the pub with Greg were a welcome change of scene, but tonight he'd found it difficult to work up the enthusiasm. Trudging slowly up the stairs to the flat, he was glad to see Sherlock asleep on the couch, and gratefully made his way up to his own room, planning to rest his aching muscles with a long, luxurious sleep.

xXx

Cracking his eyes open, John blinked blearily at the clock beside his bed. For several moments he was confused, it was two o'clock, but there was bright daylight streaming through a gap in the curtains. Smothering a cough, he dragged himself out from under the warm covers, shivering violently as he pulled his dressing gown on and wandered downstairs.

"You were coughing." Sherlock didn't deign to look up from his microscope as his flatmate shuffled around the kitchen, slowly pulling together the makings of a cup of tea.

"Sorry – what?" John croaked turning to stare at the top of his friend's curly head, watching as slender fingers adjusted the focus of his lens.

"Coughing, John. You were coughing in your sleep."

"Was I? Sorry – I was so tired I suppose it just didn't wake me."

"No, it woke me instead." The grey/blue eyes flicked up and took in the other man's dishevelled state. "You, it seems, were able to sleep most of the day away. Do you intend getting dressed? Or will you just sit around like that until you go back to bed?"

"Pot to kettle – over." John responded as sarcastically as he could, fighting to keep a bout of coughing at bay as he turned away to finish making tea.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock sat up, affronted. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means…"

Several dry coughs interrupted John's reply, and Sherlock drummed his fingers with ill-concealed impatience until he could continue.

"It means, considering you spend most of your down time between cases in much the same state, that's rather rich coming from you!" And slamming a cup of tea down in front of the younger man John took his drink upstairs.

John didn't recall falling back to sleep, but his flatmate bursting through his bedroom door some hours later woke him with a start, causing the throbbing behind his eyes to increase a hundredfold.

"John! Come on John, you can't lie around here all day. Lestrade wants us – he has a locked room suicide that couldn't possibly have been self-inflicted, quickly get dressed, we have to go"

"But…" sitting up he scrubbed a hand over his face, "Sherlock, I need to shower…."

"Later, come _on_!" Flinging John's coat at him Sherlock turned on his heel, adding as he left the room "Downstairs in five minutes John, I need you're medical expertise."

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was pacing frantically as John came downstairs wrapped up in several layers of warm clothing despite the unseasonably warm spring weather.

"Must just be overtired" He said in response to his friend's questioning look. "Let me just grab some Paracetamol for this headache and we can be on our way." But he was speaking to thin air, as Sherlock was already on his way downstairs. Grabbing the bottle of pills he hurried after him, dry-swallowing two of them once he was in the cab and speeding towards the latest crime scene.

xXx

Greg stood to one side of the room with John, watching as Sherlock crouched and examined the body. Part of his attention was on the man shivering beside him, but he decided that as a doctor John was quite capable of looking after himself, and would very likely not appreciate any interference.

"John, what do you think?" At last Sherlock was finished with the cadaver, stepping back to give his friend some room.

Taking his time, John looked closely at the man lying in the middle of the empty room. With gentle fingers he pried open the eyelids, shining his torch into the dead eyes that stared back at him, then moved down to the neck and throat.

"Some form of strangulation." He said finally. "The Hyoid bone is broken, and although I can't be certain under these conditions, I'd say with closer examination you'll find petechial haemorrhaging in and around the eyes."

"And, of course, you'll want to know how he could possibly have…." Sherlock's voice trailed off as John started coughing violently, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth as he staggered away from the victim and out through the open door. The sudden cessation of coughing was accompanied seconds later with a dull thud and a squeal of surprise from one of the waiting forensic officers.

Moving as one, Greg and Sherlock dashed out of the room to find John lying unconscious on the floor, a thin trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth, the crumpled cloth in his hand stained with bloody mucus.

xXx

Sherlock sat silently in the waiting room, staring at the floor. In the ambulance, John had woken briefly, confused and struggling for breath; he hadn't even recognised that his friend was sitting in the vehicle next to him.

As they took John into a treatment room, a nurse took the consulting detective to one side and started asking him questions. Biting down his irritation he answered as best he could, giving John's details, citing himself as next of kin, knowing how strained his relationship with his sister had been of late – Mycroft could always bring her here If it became necessary later.

Surprisingly, the nurse was less perturbed at his mention – when asked about John's movements over the previous two weeks – of crime scenes and dead bodies, than she was at his visit to the archives at Kew. Tutting loudly she excused herself and hurried away, leaving the consulting detective sitting alone.

He made several fruitless journeys to the nurse's station to enquire about his friend, but each time was told he could either wait until the doctor was ready to see him, or come back later. And standing trying to see into the treatment room was a waste of time too – the nurses had simply closed the curtains across the windows, shutting him out.

When at last the consultant entered the room, Sherlock had to restrain himself from grasping the man by the lapels of his white coat and shaking him. Instead he stood and waited for him to speak.

"Mr Holmes, I'm sorry you have been kept waiting. I understand you are his next of kin?"

Sherlock nodded, ignoring the implication in the other man's tone.

"Well, I can tell you he has pneumonia, and we think it may be related to an outbreak of Legionella at the records office. We're just waiting for blood results, but in the meantime we're treating it as such. Dr Watson will be moved to Intensive Care, where he'll be intubated to assist his breathing, and we'll give him intravenous fluids and antibiotics"

"Can I see him?"

"Once he's settled, yes." The consultant looked hard at the young man. "As a doctor, I'm surprised he didn't recognise the symptoms, however the nurse tells me he's spent the last couple of weeks following you around crime scenes – you're that consulting detective aren't you?"

"Yes, but what…"

"One of my staff worked with Dr Watson when he covered several shifts at St Mary's A&E, she tells me his 'friend' Sherlock Holmes would drag him off at all hours to chase murderers and what have you! What I am trying to tell you Mr Holmes, is that he was not only more susceptible because he was tired, but he was unable to recognise the symptoms in himself for the same reason."

"So you're saying it's my fault?"

The pout in the younger man's voice made the consultant smile.

"Not unless you deliberately introduced Legionella Pneumophila into the climate control systems at the archives – no, I'm just saying that if he wasn't so run down in the first place he would have sought help before it became this bad." He reached across and grasped Sherlock's arm, leading him towards the door. "Come, I'll take you to him now."

xXx

Greg walked in to the ICU ward the next afternoon to find Sherlock sitting, staring at the thin figure in the bed, watching the chest rise and fall with the assistance of the ventilator.

His eyes taking in the multiple IV's and monitors, Lestrade crossed to stand behind the younger man, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"I heard he has pneumonia."

"Legionnaires disease, pneumonia is a complication of it, and it's all my fault."

"Now hang on, "Greg ejaculated, pulling up a chair beside him and forcing Sherlock to look at him. "Of course it's not your fault you imbecile, it was just sheer bad luck that John was at Kew before the outbreak was notified."

"He was tired – he couldn't fight it, didn't recognise it," Sherlock snarled, pushing the other man's hand from his shoulder.

"And he's a grown man, Sherlock! He is perfectly capable of saying no. It's not as if you force him to follow you around."

"Don't I?" Suddenly all the fight had gone out of him, and he looked back at John. "Yesterday he slept in until mid-afternoon, he barely spent five minutes downstairs before he went back to bed. I woke him up, hurried him out of the house, I didn't give him a chance to say no."

Slowly, he reached out a hand and laid it on his friend's arm.

"You weren't there, Lestrade. All I did was complain to him that he'd woken me up with his coughing, I never thought….didn't realise…"

"Of course you didn't! Neither did I when I told him how awful he looked in the pub the other night – he just brushed it off with a joke, you know, typical John." Greg gave a wry smile.

Any response Sherlock may have made died on his tongue as a nurse entered the curtained cubicle and picked up John's chart. Her pointed look at Sherlock's hand on John's arm had no effect on the consulting detective, and he watched in silence as she worked.

"Listen mate, I need to get back to work – keep me up to speed on his condition, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, not really concentrating on the Detective Inspector's words, not noticing when he walked away. The ICU, its nurses, and all the machinery faded into the background as he stared at the clear plastic ventilation tube that disappeared down John's throat, pumping air into his friend's lungs, keeping him alive.

Despite his best intentions, Sherlock fell asleep in the chair at John's bedside, and despite the regulations the senior staff nurse didn't have the heart to wake him and make him leave, letting him wake naturally the next morning to the altered sounds of the cardiac monitor.

Abruptly sitting up, he blinked rapidly and his eyes sought out his friend. John's breathing was stronger now, deeper and somehow less restricted. From behind him a soft voice spoke.

"We've reduced the medication that was keeping him asleep Mr Holmes, once he's conscious we'll be able to remove the ventilator." The same nurse that had taken John's details was smiling down at the still sleepy man in the chair. "We'll need to ask you to leave while we do that, but you'll be able to come back in and sit with him afterwards."

xXx

His text sent to Lestrade, Sherlock sat in the cafeteria trying not to let his taste-buds revolt at the disgusting excuse for coffee that the staff had just sold him. No amount of sugar would improve the flavour he thought, and until now he would have stated categorically that it was impossible to 'ruin' black coffee. He was busily debating this phenomena with himself, when the nurse attracted his attention from the doorway.

"He's asking to see you, Mr Holmes." She said as he crossed the room towards her. "You know your way, don't you?"

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice, he fairly sprinted towards the ICU and his friend.

"John!" he gasped breathlessly, almost skidding to a halt at the foot of the bed and earning himself a hissed admonition from the duty nurses.

"Sorry Sherlock, I didn't mean to drop out on you like that." John offered a weak smile.

"So I should think!" Sherlock struggled to keep his voice even. "That was truly inconsiderate of you to collapse at a crime scene, you could have contaminated the evidence."

"And made it impossible for you to find the killer."

"Exactly. More to the point you could have died…" a slight twinkle glinted in the younger man's eyes. "And tell me, where would I find another consulting doctor who would be willing to put up with me?"

At the nurse's station at the far end of the Intensive Care Unit, John and Sherlock's shouts of laughter caused disapproving eyebrows to raise, and heads to shake in resignation – the sooner they get them off the ward, the sooner they could get order back to the ward.


	5. Hidden Danger

**Thanks this time to Mattsloved1 for deciding which way I nearly kill poor John this time!**

"You're not helping here, John" Sherlock hissed as he tried to pick the lock on the office door.

"Maybe so, but breaking into the reptile centre of London Zoo is not my idea of sensible investigating."

With a sharp twist of his wrist, the consulting detective opened the lock, and was stepping through the door, not bothering to check that his friend was following.

With a roll of his eyes John stepped through too, easing the door shut.

"What are we looking for exactly?" he asked as he watched Sherlock rifling through the desk drawers.

"Anything that ties Jamieson to the victims." The reply came on a frustrated huff of breath. "There _must_ be something here. Check the filing cabinet."

He flung a set of keys which John caught with one hand as he turned to the nearest cabinet.

Their search was fruitless. There appeared to be nothing to link the Director of Herpetology to the three dead men, other than access to venom extracted from some of the world's deadliest reptiles.

Sherlock stepped into the middle of the room and looked around, an unsatisfied scowl on his face. He was about to give up and rethink his strategy when he spotted it - a bolted wooden door almost hidden in the corner of the room.

"Over here John" He pulled back the bolts and entered the room, his colleague close on his heels.

They found themselves in what appeared to be a small laboratory, the type some veterinary surgeries have for testing blood and tissue samples from sick animals.

Several sloughed skins lay on the bench of the otherwise tidy room, and after a cursory look at them the two men methodically started working their way through the cupboards and drawers.

It didn't take long to find what they were looking for, but it triggered a calamitous event.

"John! I think this is it!"

John had been in the act of pulling out a deep drawer in the furthest corner of the room. As he turned to look at the papers in his friend's hand, without thinking he continued to open the drawer. An angry hiss was all the warning he got, as a huge snake, roused suddenly from sleep, stuck out at him, its fangs sinking through his jacket and into the flesh of his upper arm.

"Shit!" he yelped, leaping away as the massive cream and brown head pulled back. "Fuck Sherlock, I've been…"

"Bitten, yes I saw." Sherlock had put down the papers he was holding, and whipped out his phone, taking a picture of the snake before kicking the drawer shut.

John having yanked his jacket off was now searching through the fridge for antivenom but the shelves contained nothing but labelled blood samples and half a bottle of milk. In the background he could hear the other man on the phone, but he could barely make out what was being said over the clamouring of thoughts rushing around his head.

As he slumped into a nearby chair he closed his eyes and tried to dredge up everything he had learned in the RAMC about the treatment of snakebites, but the swollen and painful bite on his arm was making it difficult to concentrate. A soft touch on his uninjured arm brought his head jerking upwards and his eyes open.

"Lestrade's getting an ambulance here as soon as possible. What do you need?" Sherlock was crouched in front of the chair, looking worriedly at his friend.

"Anthivemom." John frowned, the word didn't sound right. He tried again. "Anthi.."

"Antivenom yes, anything else?"

Blue eyes stared helplessly into grey, and Sherlock saw fear in them. He watched as John tried to swallow, looking almost like a dental patient after a local anaesthetic.

"Open your mouth." He ordered sharply. John did so. "Your tongue's swelling. What should I do? John?"

The blond head drooped forwards, falling onto Sherlocks shoulder. As the young man wondered what he should do he felt convulsions start to shake through John's body, and he clutched at him, trying both to avoid hurting his swollen arm and prevent him from falling from the chair.

Blood spurted from John's mouth as his teeth clamped down on his tongue, and as he started to lose consciousness all Sherlock could do was ease him to the floor.

"What the…"

Sherlock looked up to see Lestrade staring down at him and John, a look of horror on his face.

"Ambulance?"

"Right behind me. Bloody hell Sherlock, how poisonous is this…."

"Gaboon Viper." Sherlock thrust his phone into Greg's hand, and nodded his head towards a chart on the wall, showing all the poisonous reptiles currently in the zoo. "Very."

A clattering sound accompanied the arrival of paramedics. Lestrade dragged Sherlock out of the way as the paramedics started to assess John.

Into the confusion walked a young man, looking a bit like a refugee from the sixties with his unkempt hair and beard, tattered flared jeans and army surplus jacket.

"I'm Peter, senior assistant in the Reptile Department." He said, looking around the inquisitive faces staring back at him. "I got a call for antivenom? It's stored in the backroom behind the snake tanks."

He held out a rectangular polystyrene box, offering it to the paramedics.

"There are five doses in there. One should be administered straight away, but take the others in case you need them." Looking at Sherlock he asked "Where was your friend when he got bitten? Not in here, but I couldn't see…"

"It was in here." Sherlock snapped, waving at the units behind him. "John opened that drawer and it was inside."

The assistant blanched, his eyes widening.

"I need to catch it before it causes any more damage."

"Yeah, but not until we are safely out of the way. And you might want to call in one of your colleagues, just to be safe." Greg pointed out as he watched John being wheeled out on the stretcher. With a nod to the young man he followed it, Sherlock at his side.

xXx

John looked small and pale, lying in the hospital bed with oxygen being pumped into him through a nasal cannula, and sticky pads littering his chest, monitoring his vital signs. A drip feeding antibiotics through a cannula in the back of his hand would prevent any infection from the bite, while a second IV was set up to introduce thromboplastin, a coagulation agent to counteract the effects of the venom and prevent internal bleeding.

Sherlock stood unmoving as the doctor explained John's condition and the treatment he was being given.

"It was fortunate you were with him when he was bitten. He should be grateful – doubly so, because your swift actions not only identified the source and type of poison, but also sourced the antivenom."

"Why is he unconscious still?" It was as if Sherlock hadn't heard the praise the doctor was offering him, his mind was both centres on his friend and yet, he was working out where their perpetrator might have gone to ground – the story of John's snakebite had made the ten o'clock news, with the result that Jamieson would have been forewarned that the police were onto him, and the added nuisance of having the press lurking outside the hospital.

The doctor looked thoughtful.

"We've not sedated him. We had to administer a further two doses of the antivenom in addition to the one given to him by the paramedics, so I'd like him to wake in his own time and meanwhile we'll continue to monitor him."

Sherlock nodded, then looked down at the papers he had grabbed from the veterinary Lab as he and Lestrade were leaving.

"I need to catch the man responsible for this."

"But surely it was an accident?"

"In a sense, but it wouldn't have happened if we hadn't been chasing a killer." With a final glance around the room, and then back at John, Sherlock turned to leave. "Ring me if there's any change." He called over his shoulder as he stalked out.

xXx

Standing on the corner of a quiet London street in the half-light of dawn, Sherlock watched the alleyway leading to the back gardens of a row of terraced houses.

At the front of the house, Lestrade and his team hammered on the door, shouted a warning and proceeded to break the door down. As the officers finally entered the house, a figure hurried furtively out of the alleyway.

Jamieson was so intent on checking behind him to see if the police were on his tail, that he barely had time to register surprise when he turned back and found himself on the receiving end of a punishing right hook from the consulting detective.

By the time Lestrade and Donovan reached him Sherlock was standing, fists clenched tightly at his side, glaring down at the unconscious herpetologist.

Donovan looked at him accusingly.

"Well, I only hit him once. Unfortunately I hit him too hard."

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow in enquiry.

"I didn't mean to knock him out; I wanted the pleasure of punching his face to a pulp." He stepped away from the prone figure. "And now I've caught your killer for you, I'm going back to the hospital."

xXx

John was looking blearily around the ward when Sherlock moved into his line of vision.

"Jesus, I must have been ill for you to look that worried." John croaked softly.

"No, not worried John, it's just that I didn't manage to get any sleep last night – chasing murderers – tiring."

"Right, that would have disturbed your beauty sleep."

Grey eyes took in every aspect of the man in the bed, from the heavy dark circles under the dull blue eyes, to the waxy pallor of his cheeks. The IV lines were gone, but the oxygen was still feeding his lungs.

"Doctor said you have to stay in for at least another couple of days, he said…" Sherlock's voice cracked slightly, but he cleared his throat and continued "he said you may relapse, so he wants to be sure of your recovery."

"Oh poor Mrs Hudson." John sighed, his eyes fluttering shut.

"What?"

One eye cracked open.

"Well, you'll be bloody insufferable 'til I get back." There was a soft warmth and humour in John's voice. "Try not to goad her into murdering you – she needs your share of the rent money."

**A/N: The symptoms John suffered have been speeded up and exaggerated (slightly). Should you be bitten by a snake, you should seek medical attention immediately. Some of the most deadly snakebites feel relatively painless to begin with – by the time they start to hurt it could be too late.**


	6. Hole In One

**Many thanks to jack63kids, for choosing this latest way to nearly kill Dr John:)**

Pain erupted through John's chest as one of the would-be burglars lashed out with a wooden fence post. The doctor in him realised he was in trouble when he felt the tearing sensation as the young delinquent pulled his weapon back for another swing, and john's next exhalation brought blood bubbling to his lips.

The boy stared in horror, first at his victim, and then at the wooden post now hanging loosely in his hand. A long nail protruded from it, stained bright red with John's blood.

"I…I'm sorry." He stammered, watching the blood froth around John's lips as he coughed.

"Ambulance…" the injured man wheezed, but the youth and his partner in crime were already running full pelt from the crime scene as John, struggling for breath, collapsed slowly to the ground.

xXx

Glancing at the clock, Sherlock realised his flatmate should have been back by now. After all, he had only gone down to the bank to arrange for a new card – the ATM having swallowed his last one. Still pondering this, he wondered too what had drawn him out of his mind palace so abruptly.

The soft chime of his mobile text alert had him reaching for the device, and a brief check showed he had missed two calls – both from Lestrade. He opened the text.

'_Please ring me – urgently. GL'_

Rolling his eyes he dialled the number, it was answered on the first ring.

"Sherlock." Greg's voice was harsh. "Where the hell are you?"

"Good afternoon Lestrade. And what has got you so worked up that you have to yell at me?"

"I'm at Dr Sawyer's surgery – John's here, we're waiting for an ambulance."

Sherlock sat up abruptly.

"Who's waiting for an ambulance? Why?"

"John was found bleeding and unconscious, near the back entrance to the pharmacy next door. It looks very much like he interrupted a burglary." Greg drew a deep breath. "Sarah says his left lung's been punctured, and the right may have been compromised by the bleeding. She's treated him, but he needs to get to a hospital as soon as possible."

Pulling on his coat and scarf as he listened, Sherlock hurtled down the stairs and out of the door.

"Which hospital?" he snapped, hailing a taxi.

"Nearest is St Mary's. Sarah…." But he didn't get to finish his sentence, and he stared at his now silent phone.

Sarah placed a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to look at her.

"John's conscious – try not to let him talk too much." She led the way to her consulting room.

John lay on the examination table, his head and shoulders slightly raised. His coat and shirt were open, and his t-shirt had been cut open to reveal the wound. Dr Sawyer had covered it with an occlusive dressing, sealed on three sides to allow air to escape, but not re-enter the chest cavity.

"Ambulance is on its way mate, and I've let Sherlock know what happened."

Greg looked down at his friend, whose breaths were coming fast and shallow, as if trying to prevent the pain from increasing.

"Two of them…" he gasped. "Only kids."

"Later, I can take your statement later."

John shook his head.

"Frightened…"

"There's no need to be frightened, John." Sarah squeezed his hand. "The ambulance will be here soon."

"Not…me…"

It was painful for them to listen to the blond doctor's struggle to make himself understood.

"The kid….might do something….stupid."

Sarah muttered something about already having done something stupid, but John had slipped back into unconsciousness.

xXx

Sherlock sat staring at his friend, sleeping peacefully in his hospital bed. He ignored the sound of his brother's approach, until that man stood opposite him on the other side of John's bed.

"He still sleeps then?"

"Oh, well observed Mycroft."

Mycroft sniffed loftily.

"What will you do now?"

"Once he wakes up, I'll get a description of the criminals…"

"Oh, that won't be necessary." Mycroft smirked. "Hasn't Lestrade been in contact?"

Sherlock frowned and looked up at him.

"Apparently John's assailants were delivered to The Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard less than an hour ago – by your little friend Kallie and a group of her homeless friends." He looked down at the man in the bed. "It would seem the good doctor is rather highly thought of by your scruffy band of vigilantes."

With a sneer Sherlock turned away, looking idly out of the window,

"Goodbye, brother dear. Do try to take better care of your friend." And on that note, Mycroft strolled away.

In the bed, John opened one eye.

"Has he gone?" His voice was soft, and a little breathless.

"John, for goodness sake can't you stay out of trouble for five minutes?" There was no trace of disapproval on the younger man's face, just a wry smile.

"Be honest Sherlock," John huffed a soft laugh. "You'd be bored in no time!"


	7. Love Hurts

**Here it is - the first Johnlock story in this series, so if you don't like Johnlock then I would suggest you read no further. Established relationship, but not graphic. Angsty...**

Most of their arguments were fast and furious, explosive, heated, but over quickly, and making up was always a bonus.

This one though, had been different. John had spent Saturday evening in the pub with a number of old army friends, celebrating both their safe return, and the forthcoming nuptials of one of their number.

Happily relaxed with a couple of pints inside him, John had confessed his relationship with Sherlock, confident that his friends would understand. And they had understood – displaying their approval by picking him up and almost bear-hugging him to death.

Paul Fischer grabbed him, placing a hand on each side of his face, and pulled him in for a sloppy, drunken kiss, cheered on by his comrades in arms. John barely flinched, knowing the guys would make sure that Paul was reminded of his actions at every opportunity – that made the joke worth-while.

Nobody had noticed the tall, curly haired young man, watching their antics from the other bar. As he saw the blond doctor being thoroughly kissed he put his half empty glass down, and headed for the door – he didn't see the way the other man swiped at his lips with his sleeve, as if to wipe away something distasteful.

xXx

Sherlock was sitting in his chair when John returned, relatively sober but very tired. He knew something was wrong from the minute he walked through the door.

"Sherlock? It's nearly 2am; you've not been sitting there all this time waiting for me have you?" He hung his jacket up and slumped onto the couch. "What's happened?"

He hadn't seen it coming. All at once Sherlock's temper, usually coldly controlled, erupted into a mass of vitriolic accusation and rage.

John tried valiantly to stem the flow of hurt and hurtful words, but the alcohol he had consumed slowed his already tired brain. By the time he had formed any kind of coherent explanation, Sherlock was pulling his coat and scarf on, and heading for the door.

"Don't bother to wait up for me; I don't know if I'll be back."

"Wait Sherlock, please…" John reached out to grasp his arm. "Let me explain…"

"I don't want to hear your lies and excuses!" Wrenching away, Sherlock walked out of the flat.

xXx

Determined not to go to his brother, Sherlock hailed a taxi and headed to St Bart's. His many years spent in the laboratories had made the place as familiar as 221B, and he slipped in unnoticed by the night staff.

Molly had kindly allocated him cupboard space, where he could store on-going studies such as his soil comparisons, and he pulled these out now to settle into the soothing routine of the Work – closing his mind to the man he left behind at the flat.

More than an hour had passed when the first text arrived.

'_Come home 'Lock, let me explain – JW'_

He glanced at the message, and then returned his attention to the slides.

Fifteen minutes later another one arrived.

'_I'm sorry – JW'_

With a grunt of indifference he pushed his phone further away.

When a third text message arrived shortly afterwards he picked up the phone and read it.

'_I love you – JW'_

Rolling his eyes he finally decided to turn the phone off, impatient with all the interruptions.

As ever, the research aspect of his work had a calming effect on Sherlock's mind, and as he examined slides and compared samples he started to regret not giving John the chance to explain – after all, he'd been open about where he was going, who he was meeting, and he'd even invited Sherlock to join them. He'd declined of course, but something made him curious, and so he had gone along to their meeting place.

With hindsight he realised he should have just joined them – John would have welcomed him, as he always did, with a hug and a ready smile – but instead he chose to watch from the shadows. Well, he berated himself silently, in that case he got what he deserved.

Straightening up in his chair, reached for his mobile, switching it back on, intending to send a text, but immediately the alert sounded. John. With a smile he opened it, but as he read his smile faded.

'_Forgive me, 'Lock. I love you. Always. – JW'_

Frantically, Sherlock dialled John's number, swearing under his breath as it went straight to voicemail. He'd turned it off.

Not bothering to put his work away he dashed for the door, running down the corridor and out to the road, looking worriedly around for a taxi. As luck would have it one was sitting on a nearby rank, and he sprinted across and jumped in, yelling the address as he sat back and pulled his phone out once more.

John's text had been sent over half an hour earlier, and Sherlock dithered over whether or not to call an ambulance. He'd look stupid if John had just simply given up asking forgiveness and gone to bed, but something about that last text had ice forming in the pit of his stomach.

Fortunately, the traffic at 5am was light. Throwing money at the cabbie, he let himself into the house and ran up the stairs to the flat. Inside it was cold and dark, and too quiet.

Heading straight for their bedroom he pushed the door open, and his worst fears were realised. John lay still fully clothed, sprawled face down across the bed, his face pressed into Sherlock's pillow, tear tracks staining his cheeks, and dampening the pillowcase.

As he dialled 999, Sherlock crossed to the bed, his eyes taking in everything about the room. An empty pill bottle sat the bedside table, next to an empty glass. He demanded an ambulance, gave the address, and turned his attention to the man on the bed.

"John! Wake up John" he pulled the limp body into his arms, his fingers searching for, and finding a pulse, weak and quivering, but thankfully there. "John please, I need to know how many of these pills you've taken."

John was floundering on the edge of consciousness, his head flopping limply against the other man's arm, his lips moving soundlessly, his eyelids not quite closed but his eyes unseeing. Sherlock tightened his hold, dropping his head to press his cheek against Johns, trying to hear his muttered words.

Looking closely at the label on the bottle, his heart sunk as he realised that John had swallowed a whole newly filled prescription of the potent painkillers that he kept for when his shoulder was really painful.

Sherlock didn't know how long he sat, holding his John, begging him to stay with him, not to leave him alone. It was only when he felt firm but gentle hands pulling John from his hold that he realised the paramedics had arrived.

Hot on their heels came Mycroft, alerted by his security that an ambulance had been despatched to his brother's address.

In a blur of activity, John was whisked out of the building and in to the waiting vehicle. Sherlock travelled with him, but once they reached the hospital, and the doors closed on the treatment room, he was left to collapse in his brother's arms, shell-shocked and terrified.

Easing his brother into a chair in the family waiting room, Mycroft sat opposite and peered into his paler than usual face.

"Why?"

"We had an argument. It's all my fault." Sherlock's voice was shaky, full of apprehension.

"But you've argued before, this isn't John's usual reaction."

"No, but I've never walked out on him before, after accusing him of…" his voice broke, as did the final threads of his self-control, and he curled himself into a ball on the chair and sobbed.

Mycroft didn't have a clue how to comfort his brother, so he sat, silently watching as the heart that no one believed existed shattered.

xXx

The atmosphere in the family room was heavy. Sherlock was quiet now, his red-rimmed eyes staring at the door that had remained stubbornly closed for the last forty-five minutes, and Mycroft was watching his brother, quietly hoping that John would make it this time, dreading his brother's reaction if he didn't.

When the doctor finally entered, Sherlock shot out of his chair and grasped the man by his arms.

"Is he alive?" his eyes stared hard at the doctor, trying to read the information in his face. "Please, tell me."

"He's very poorly, but we hope that no permanent damage has been done." The doctor eased himself out of the brutal grip, and stepped back. "Although he had alcohol in his blood, he had taken the pills with water – had he not, I don't think he would be with us now"

"Can I see him?"

"You can see him in the treatment room, before we take him up to the ward. Visiting times…"

"John Watson is to have a private room." Mycroft stepped in. "And my brother, his partner, will stay there with him." He pulled out his phone and made a swift call, waiting only until the arrangements had been confirmed, then followed the two men to where John lay sleeping.

xXx

It was late in the afternoon when Sherlock, his head resting on the bed beside John's hand, felt the other man begin to stir.

He stood and leaned over, so that he could be the first thing John would see when he opened his eyes.

As the blue eyes fluttered open, the younger man struggled to prevent himself from dragging the other man into his arms. He watched as discomfort flickered across John's face when he swallowed, and hearing his name being croaked, he reached over to the table and poured a drink of water, gently lifting John's shoulders and holding the glass to his lips.

"They had to pump your stomach." Sherlock told him. "You tried to commit suicide John, why?"

"You thought…I wanted….you said you wouldn't be back…." John stopped, as if realising he was making things more confusing. He sighed and looked up into Sherlock's face. "I didn't want to be alone again. You didn't return my texts. I thought you were gone."

The noise that tore itself from Sherlock's lips was a cross between a cry of anguish and a moan of terror, and he let his forehead rest against John's.

"Never." He said vehemently. "I'll never leave you alone."

They shared a soft kiss.

"If you ever do that again," he added, "know that I'll follow you, and wherever you end up, heaven or hell, I'll be right behind you. I promise, you won't lose me that easily."


End file.
